


take me as I am

by singitagain



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Affection, Fingering, Frot, M/M, Porn Without Plot, Spanking, characterization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-02-18 15:58:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18702823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singitagain/pseuds/singitagain
Summary: PWP. A humble compilation-to-be of bite-sized, Nygmobblepot-themed mini-fics that will be added every now and again. Tags will be added as applicable.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Short fics to read in a snap while you're at lunch or waiting for the bus, I don't know your life! Some of what you will read are bits from fics I haven't finished or may never finish; some are gifts to others; and most are unpolished AF. This will just be a dumping ground for them. And who knows - some of these may end up absorbed into future fics, if I find the energy to build off them. Thanks for reading!

Tonight, it's Oswald's turn - and he's let Ed know no less than three times, throwing winks and sidelong smiles out of the public eye, his dimples on full display. It's nice, the way it puts a spring in Oswald's limp. It also means there's a noticeable shift in the energy Oswald brings into the bedroom with him later, a softer _buzz_ , because he's relaxed in a way Gotham and the pressures of mayorship and managing his criminal empire and his own nerves seldom allow him to be with just one glass of wine in him.

As always, Oswald closes the door first, turns the dimmer switch. Then, and only then, he gets up on the tips of his toes and they press into each other, chest to chest and mouth to mouth, sliding together like two pieces of a puzzle. Ed can't help smirking a little into his kiss, remembering a time not long ago when Oswald was just as gawky as a high schooler asked to his first dance. There's still some of that wonder in the slow, sweeping path Oswald's hands smooth up Ed's shirt and down the broad span of his back; a nervousness, like he's discovering Ed all over again, mapping out the geography of the first body he's ever touched. It's unexpectedly endearing, Ed has to admit, in a different way than Oswald's fits of boyish embarrassment are - his pinched lips and the deep reddening of his ears - whenever he'd edge Oswald's thighs apart and lay his loving mouth on him, glancing up at him through his lashes while plying him open. 

Ed says nothing, for now; just lets Oswald be Oswald, an amused uptick to his smile as he feels Oswald's cock twitch against his thigh, filling.

There's a whole night ahead of them but in minutes they're drunk on each other, Oswald giggling his conspiratorial little giggle as he backs him into the bed, the wooden frame pressing into his calves. Ed's balance shifts and he grabs Oswald by the hips as he falls, pulling him down. He flops onto him with a gasp, graceless, and they blink at each other a while, panting into each others' faces. Soft and uneven, as if they're taking turns breathing. Then Oswald cracks a simpering smile, humming low in his throat as he slides off Ed's glasses and kisses him again. It's not overtly hungry in the way Oswald had laid claim to Gotham itself. Instead, his lips linger soft on the corner of Ed's mouth, the hinge of his jaw - too sweet and too patient for the lust gripping Ed's guts. With a half-grin of his own, he hooks his fingers into the cloth belt of Oswald bathrobe and tugs stiffly, jamming their bodies closer.

"I thought you wanted me," Ed teases as he rocks his hips, rutting him into him.

Oswald huffs a breathy, stuttering laugh.

"Make no mistake," he assures Ed, his eyes lidded and glinting with the unmistakable cunning that had lured Ed to him, led him astray, so long ago. "I'm just warming up."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New kink, never wrote spanking before. A rough, unpolished little thing written for a friend, who wanted Ed to be the spankee.

It's hard to believe, sometimes, that there was ever a time when it took some persuasion to get Oswald to try it. But only for as long as it takes for Ed to remember the scandalized face Oswald made at just a simple pat of the knee - a half-joking invitation for Oswald to fold himself over his leg and pin up his tails and consider being disciplined for _once_ in his life. 

(Ed hadn't phrased it like that, of course -- he wasn't looking to have his head bitten off.)

It's doubtful that _Mama Cobblepot_ believed at all in spanking her son, and Ed gets the distinct feeling that if she had ever raised her hand, it had likely ended with her crying harder than Oswald had. He, on the other hand - _heh_ \- is much more familiar with the practice, to the point of having flustered Oswald, at first, with how readily he laid himself over his knee - the good one -, spread over his lap. Even now, Oswald slows, hesitates, when he thinks the fun and gamely struggling has gone on for long enough, when Ed's bottom is glowing-red and Ed still braces for more, breathing and breathing, refusing to end it with a word.

Ed likes being seen. That stretch of silence when his briefs slide down his skin and he shifts around, maybe a little more than he needs to, just to hear the subtle hitch in Oswald's breath.

He likes the teasing threat in Oswald's voice and the slow burn of it all, the slow build from a gentle tapping to stinging slaps laid over his flexing, wobbling cheeks, his cock throbbing in counter-rhythm.

He likes the sleek leather of Oswald's glove sweeping over him, quasi-apologetic, and the sweet, groaning soreness as his fingers rub and knead and soothe the hurt.

But there's nothing in the world like the moments before the _crash_ , when waves of pain and adrenaline and endorphins crest, pummeling all sense and reason out of him, and he goes boneless, all of him shuddering as the shock of Oswald's hand cracking over his ass runs him through, end to end. He doesn't always come this way, but when he does, it's in jolts onto the towel spread over the rug, moaning like an animal - deep, guttural sounds pouring out of his throat. 

Like with many of Ed's interests, Oswald doesn't seem to understand the appeal. He lives with pain; it has never shown a more meaningful side to him, never freed him when it is the very thing that keeps him trapped. But what Oswald _does_ understand is how to be good, when he wants to be.

It doesn't end with the ice packs and the lotions smoothed over Ed's fevered skin; or with slickened fingers, when Ed arches his back and bears down, twitchy-needy and seeking, sobbing when Oswald's touch finds the rawest part of him and finally dips inside, stretching him. He thought Oswald wouldn't be able to say no to the invitation to unzip and fuck him proper while he lies blissed out and broken and spent - but to that, Oswald has snorted, met him with lopsided smirks, almost as if refusing him - being able to - is a point of a pride. He's eager, but not to push into the tight grittiness of Ed's body so much as to get him sprawled over the chaise-lounge, on his belly, and under an ice pack and blanket. There's a patience to all this that Ed has seen Oswald reserve for little else; that _he_ can be one of those things continues to amaze Ed, to baffle him, time after time.

"I'm fine, Oswald", he often mumbles, which never works; Oswald still strokes his sweat-damp hair or presses kisses to the crown of his head, things he gets away with while Ed is too hazy-floaty and exhausted to do more than wonder why.

"What about you?" Ed asks him, once, looking sideways from the chaise-lounge to Oswald slouched in his leather armchair with a whiskey. Oswald's crotch is at eye level and he finds himself staring longer than could be considered polite, realizing that he isn't hard.

With a toss of his head, Oswald spreads his hands in a sort of shrug, the ice clinking in his glass. "What about me?"

Ed swallows. He doesn't know what to say to that. He just looks at Oswald like he's noticing him for the first time, watching him, waiting. Sleep has always come for Ed first -- but this time he fights it with everything he has, running through all the mnemonic devices he can think of in his head. 

Eventually, Oswald pushes to stand, his jagged footfalls leading out of the parlour and back in again. Ed feels the nape of his neck prickle at the _sweeping_ of Oswald's foot as it drags over the tiles, louder, closer, until Oswald is there, standing at his side, breathing softly.

Something clinks delicately in his hands. Ed rises on an elbow, turning to glance at him over his shoulder.

"Chamomile," Oswald says, laying a teacup and saucer over the ottoman nearest Ed. "Now get some rest."

Ed blinks, his throat heaving, a something like a half-formed _thank you_ clotting behind his Adam's apple. Oswald doesn't stay in the hopes of hearing it; he knows Ed, knows better now. He turns and sinks back into his chair before long with his drink back in hand - and from across the room, Ed can just make out the dim smile on Oswald's lips as he stares into the fire, a smile as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be.


End file.
